


Kneading

by betts



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Roommates, Soft Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: Hux's new roommate has boundary issues.





	Kneading

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Kneading](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473277) by [Nordremo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordremo/pseuds/Nordremo)



> for kyluxsoftkinks: Insistently seeking physical contact for comfort. Like, grabbing the other’s hand, curling up in their lap, just trying to be close to the other in any way. Doesn’t have to be canon universe, bonus points if Hux is clingy too :)
> 
> This is a ficlet I wrote in 2016 and posted on tumblr. Moving it to ao3 in the great purge.

No one would ever consider Hux an  _ affectionate _ individual. He scowls more than he smiles. The only person he ever hugs is his mother. He carries with him an invisible, wide berth of personal space that most people pick up on and accommodate.

Most people. But not his new roommate. Whom he found on Craigslist. 

For the most part, Kylo Ren (which is not his real name according to the sublet lease) is a decent roommate. He does his own dishes and keeps his room clean. He’s quiet. He pays Rent on time. He doesn’t park in Hux’s parking space. On paper, Hux has no complaints.

But Ren does not appear to have any concept of personal boundaries. The first thing Hux notices, a month into living together, is that Ren doesn’t own toiletries, except for a razor and toothbrush. no shampoo, conditioner, soap, shaving cream, toothpaste, or other assorted treatments that litter Hux’s side of the sink.

So when Hux finds his bar of soap sudsy when he hadn’t showered recently, he asks Ren, “How do you bathe? You don’t own any soap,” a little bit in awe, because Ren has this more-or-less ethereal quality to him which may in fact render him some kind of magical being who is so pure he doesn’t need soap or shampoo. He certainly never smells bad. He doesn’t smell like anything, actually, which makes Hux realize —

“I use yours.”

— he smells like Hux.

And Hux, for reasons he can’t fully understand, doesn’t ask him to stop.

There are other things that make Ren a good roommate, which balance out the toiletry-sharing. He cooks every night and shares his food with Hux without asking to be reimbursed for ingredients. The meals are healthy and elaborate, much better than what Hux would fix for himself — sandwiches and frozen meals and things that come from a box. There’s always freshly baked bread on the counter, and on Sundays Ren makes brunch. When the weather gets warm, Ren plants a small vegetable garden. He wakes up early and goes running at dawn, and he’s back before Hux has even finished his coffee.

One late spring morning, as Hux is scrolling through the news on his iPad, barely hanging onto consciousness, Ren comes in from his run and starts to toss together his post-workout smoothie. Hux stares at his (wide, sculpted) chest blankly, thinking that the faded _B_ _ owling Green University _ across the front looks awfully familiar. 

“Did you go to Bowling Green?” Hux asks.

Ren gives him a confused look as he drops a banana into the blender. “No? I went to OSU.”

“Then why are you wearing —” It dawns on him. “That’s my shirt.”

Ren looks down at his (Hux’s) shirt. The heather grey is dark from Ren’s sweat, and now that Hux thinks about it, it fits far too tightly on Ren’s body, clings to his muscles and stretches at his biceps. 

“Oh, must’ve gotten mixed up with my stuff.”

“How?”

“Sometimes when I don’t have a full load I grab some of your laundry and toss it in with mine.”

“What?”

“You never said anything, I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t even notice.”

“Well, then, not a big deal. I’ll wash the shirt and put it back in with your stuff.”

“No,” Hux finds himself saying, while imagining Ren going through his bedroom, his hamper, his dirty clothes, “keep it.”

On Fridays they watch movies together and order pizza, take turns picking out the movie, even though they always seem to agree anyway. They both like mindless action flicks in equal measure to Oscar nod indies, and tend to pepper in some golden age science fiction when nothing else sounds appealing. Hux only owns the one couch, ugly green micro-suede but incredibly comfortable. He sits on one side and Ren on the opposite. They’ve never had a problem.

Until, while watching Predator, Ren puts his legs over Hux’s lap. 

“What are you doing?” Hux asks.

“What?” Ren says absently, engrossed in the movie, “I’m more comfortable this way.”

Hux stares at the flickering light across Ren’s bare feet, his bony ankles, his chiseled calves, the dusting of dark hair on his shins. He could, he reasons, push Ren off of him and let the matter go. But Ren’s legs are warming his otherwise cold lap, the heavy weight more soothing than he anticipated. So, like the toiletries and the laundry, he lets it slide.

A week later, Hux has a smear of pizza sauce on his face, and Ren licks the pad of his thumb, reaches forward and wipes it off. It should disgust Hux. It doesn’t. 

The week after that, Ren is trying to maneuver around Hux in the kitchen, and puts a hand on his hip to gently nudge him over. Ren’s hand is so large and strong and warm that Hux’s mind blanks out and he moves willingly. He should say something about it. He doesn’t.

Ren makes pasta, holds up a spoon and asks Hux to test the noodles. He stands too close. Hux doesn’t move away. Instead he says, “Another minute.” He should move away now, he thinks. He doesn’t.

Ren absently swipes a lock of hair from Hux’s forehead while rambling benign complaints about his mother. It’s so surreal, so simple, so baffling, Hux just listens, and nods, and should tell Ren not to do it again. He doesn’t.

Ren starts walking around the house in his underwear. The summer is too hot for their pitiful air conditioning to keep up. The ceiling fans make the little black wisps of hair that fall out of Ren’s ponytail caress his pale skin. The brief touches that Hux has gotten used to become infinitely more charged with Ren in his undressed state, and by all means now is the time Hux should finally say something about it. 

Still. He doesn’t.

And then Ren’s window unit breaks.

Hux, dead asleep, stirs slightly when he feels a dip in his bed. Body heat radiates behind him, but it’s okay, he thinks groggily, with the oscillating fan blasting an even current over him. He’s a little cold. A heavy arm falls across his stomach and an enormous, strong body curls against him. A leg slots between his own. He’s never been held like this, in his memory, yet it’s not  _ un _ familiar. 

He stiffens and opens his eyes. “Ren.”

“Mmh?” Ren asks, muffled between Hux’s shoulder blades.

“What are you doing.”

“Room’s too hot.”

“That doesn’t mean you can use mine.”

“Want me to leave?”

“I…” Hux begins. “Only tonight. I’ll get your unit fixed in the morning.”

“Mkay,” Ren replies, and snuggles — somehow, impossibly — closer.

Hux, true to his word, gets Ren’s window unit fixed the next day. Brand new. The room lowers to seventy-two degrees within minutes. 

Twelve hours later, Ren crawls in bed with Hux again. 

“What now?” Hux asks.

“Too cold.”

This time, he trails his hand over Hux’s belly, ghosts his lips over his shoulders — not kissing, just feeling. Pressing. Always pressing. 

Hux should tell him to leave.

He doesn’t.

Legs across Hux’s lap during movie time turn into a pillow where Ren prefers to lay his head. Instead of asking, Ren takes Hux’s hand and puts it on his scalp, moving it around so Hux gets the picture. Hux sighs, and strokes Ren’s hair.

“Are you like this with everyone?” Hux asks, staring down at Ren’s angelic face while he runs his fingers through the thick, soft strands of black. 

“No,” Ren says. “Just you.” 

The end of summer. A sunday evening. Nearly six months since Ren moved in and began plaguing Hux’s life with intimacy. The kitchen smells like rising yeast and Hux watches as Ren kneads dough on the flour-coated countertop. 

“You wanna try?” Ren asks, nodding to the dough.

“Sure,” Hux says. He powders his hands with flour and squishes the dough in his fists.

Ren lets out a little laugh. “Not like that.” He settles behind Hux, the way they sleep together, hooks his chin over Hux’s shoulder and guides his hands around the dough, turning and folding and pushing. “Like this.” His voice is soft by Hux’s ear, his breath warm on his neck.

They form the dough into a ball and Hux turns his head slightly to say something. Ren catches the corner of Hux’s jaw with his lips, an open mouthed kiss that sends a shiver down Hux’s spine. 

Hux freezes. Ren has finally gone too far. Hux should put a stop to this, he thinks. They're roommates, for godsake. He should —

He doesn’t.

Hux twists in Ren’s embrace and waits a long, hesitant moment before Ren leans down and brushes his lips over Hux's. Like the rest of him, his mouth is large but soft, demanding but gentle. He rests a hand on Hux’s neck. His fingers leave marks of flour in their wake. Hux drags Ren closer, fisting handfuls of worn cotton t-shirt that he just now realizes is his own. 

Later, they shower together, kiss and glide against one another. Ren never stops touching Hux for more than a couple seconds at a time, even takes him by the hand and pulls him into bed. Devours him and pushes him over the brink and licks him clean after. They doze for a while and go again. Ren moves with Hux like they’re extensions of one another, gives Hux everything he wants without him having to ask for it. This time, when Ren presses, Hux yields.

It should terrify him, how much he loves Ren.

It doesn’t.


End file.
